


Hey Bev, (Don't Be Afraid)

by CamillaEmily



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Other, Richie loves Bev, by Beverly's shitty dad not by our Trash son, i guess?, so there's also a lotta fluff, whole lotta angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 16:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12963921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamillaEmily/pseuds/CamillaEmily
Summary: His jaw dropped, the unlit cigarette falling from his lips, lighter falling from his fingers and body almost falling off the window sill. He pressed his face against the glass before throwing open the window, his heart beating wildly and his brain malfunctioning through figuring out if what he was seeing was real.There, in his front garden, was Beverly Marsh.She was silent, unmoving, and dressed only in her underwear."Jesus fucking Christ, are you fucking insane!"





	Hey Bev, (Don't Be Afraid)

**December 9th, 1994**

 

Richie watched his bedside clock tick carelessly over midnight; the mechanism unperturbed by the time it displayed, but Richie was far too aware of it. He laid on his side, hair falling across his face, so it tickled his jaw and cheeks, but he couldn't be bothered to push it away and instead let it sit there, irritating him, giving him something to focus on and do while the seconds ticked away.

Richie couldn't sleep. This was highly unusual. But his brain wouldn't shut off tonight; something it did quite regularly but never at night and if it did, never so late into the night. He could just feel something... _off_. He didn't know what, but his gut was coiled tight, and his breath felt a little choked, and he knew something was wrong.

He eventually let out a deep sigh and decided that he may as well do something, the itch of the need for a nicotine hit instantly granting him a solution. He sat up, vision dizzy for a moment, before he dug around under his bed for his pack of Marlboros and lighter, and stood up, balance fucked for a moment. He shook the box, a cigarette falling into his palm and made his way over to the window, pulling up the curtain and opening it.

The next twenty seconds that passed were, after Richie had had the benefit of hindsight, the calm before the storm. He half-settled himself on the window sill, placing the cigarette in his mouth and cupped his hand around the end as tried to ignite his lighter. Then, scarlet caught his eye.

His jaw dropped, the unlit cigarette falling from his lips, lighter falling from his fingers and body almost falling off the window sill. He pressed his face against the glass before throwing open the window, his heart beating wildly and his brain malfunctioning through figuring out if what he was seeing was real.

There, in his front garden, was Beverly Marsh.

She was silent, unmoving, and dressed only in her underwear.

**_Her underwear?!_**

"Jesus fucking Christ, are you fucking insane!" Richie whisper-shouted, body half-falling out the window, the wave of his dark hair fluttering in the soft icy wind out the corner of his eye. She didn't respond, her body shivering thoroughly and alarmingly, limp strands of hair dancing across her pallid frozen face like plastic wire plugged into the head of a porcelain doll.

Richie kept calling out her name but she wasn't responding, shoulders slumped with her black bra straps looking more like binds tight against the dull white skin. It wasn't until his mouth switched to 'Bevvie' that her head snapped up so quickly he winced, but then pure panic swelled in his chest as the trails of tears glowed in the moonlight, and her mouth was quivering through small billows of condensed breath. He raked his hands through his hair, making a rapid decision and called down a quick, "Just stay there!"

He shot back into his room, flinging open his closet door to grab a wad of blankets and threw them carelessly onto his already thick comforter before turning back to waddle up a pile of whatever clothes he had laid unthoughtfully in the bottom of it. Without bothering to shut it he bounded down the stairs, a shirt and jumper or two trailing behind him but he only tossed his pile onto the kitchen table. He grabbed the keys hung next to the door, shuffling through them with trembling fingers and, after two unsuccessful tries and once dropping them, he wrenched open the door and was met face to face with his best friend.

Wasting no time on staring at her, he dragged her inside as gently but as quickly as he could and rubbed her arms, the icy skin causing another ripple of panic to spike through him. She was still crying softly, piercing sobs spitting from her lips to wet his shirt but he only shushed her lightly, hugging her closer. With one arm wrapped snugly around her shivering shoulders he rummaged in the pile of clothes to pull out a t-shirt and, with a bit of resistance mostly from his insistence of keeping an arm around her to share body heat, he pulled it over her head, her modesty now reinstated. Diving in a second time he managed to find a pair of sweatpants that he slipped up her legs and tied them tight enough to stay on her smaller waist, but loose enough so she wouldn't feel too constricted.

He slid both his arms around her again and placed a kiss on the top of her head, murmuring, "I've got you, now. You're okay, Bev."

"I like it when you call me that." She whispered into his chest, her voice muffled and thick, and weak, and it made Richie's heart break and his own tears sting in his eyes. He squeezed her tighter before loosening his arms to shrug out of his jumper, knowing it would be warmer than any he had stuffed in his cold closet. As it went on the hood fell over her head and eyes, and he pushed it back making her previously flat hair fluff back into a somewhat version of its usual curly mess.  He chuckled, the noise a little choked, and rubbed a gentle hand through it to puff it up more. Curling his hand around the crown of her head, he tugged her forward by the arm around her waist to smush a kiss on her warmer forehead.

"Bev," He started, speaking as softly as he could, tilting her head up by the back of her neck. She gave him a weak smile in return which Richie took as a good sign, "What happened?"

The air was thick and still for a moment. Beverly's eyes dulled and in the dim room, the ghostly pale light of the moon glowing through the door haloed around her but only succeeded in darkening the sharp shadows of her face making her appear gaunt and scarred. Richie had never felt more scared for his friend his life. The horrifying second passed as she leaned her forehead against his chest. The words she whispered disappeared into the blackness of the room, but they stayed with Richie so sharp and so clear that on the deadest and more silent nights he still can hear them lurking in the shadows,

_"I can still feel his hands under my skin."_

Richie felt sick. A tight and toxic grip squeezed at his chest, stomach, everywhere. The crash of realisation left him dizzy and unaware of how to repress his visible emotion as he burst into tears and tugged her full against him, his shuddering chest bumping against her nose. He drew a hard, thick, shaky breath until he felt it ache in his throat, enough to ground himself and focus on his friend. His best friend, who deserved so much more than how he- how life had fucking treated her.

"No one's going to... to hurt you, Bev. Not while I'm around, you got that? And I'm always gonna be here, so you don't have to worry." His voice felt strained, but the hard edge to it spilled more assurance that he thought capable - a promise to himself as well as her.

Richie has wholly known few things in his life. He knows Eddie is always going to cry when he watches the Breakfast Club. He knows Bill is never going to get sick of The Beatles. He knows Stan will always sit on the couch seat on the far left. He knows Ben will always eat a ham and cheese sandwich for lunch. He knows Mike's favourite colour is always going to be purple. But most of all, he knows he's going to fight for Beverly Marsh until he drops dead. That he absolutely knows.

"Come on, shit Bev you're still freezing, let's get you upstairs." He whispered and carefully led her up the creaky stairs of the last place he'd want her to be at this moment; the empty and quiet house only a reminder of his parents neglect as they had once again left with no comment of farewell or affirmation of return. 

For a moment, a crazy irrational moment, a thought jumped into his mind. It filled him with the hot desire to run. To pack his things, grab his keys, buckle Bev into his truck and _run_. To drive to Eddie's house, Bill's house, Stan's, Mike's, Ben's and convince them to come with them with a naive but determined look in his eyes, with promises of a clearer and brighter life away from the suffocating small town of Derry.

But then the thought vanished back into the corner of his mind where it would usually sit, only reappearing in moments like this. When this life felt too much, and Derry felt too dark, too hopeless, too _much_. But, like always, it seceded, waiting for something he did not know. Something big that would finally push him too far? Could he risk waiting for it?

Beverly sniffed into his chest, her fingers gripping his t-shirt and Richie was suddenly brought back to the present as they awkwardly waddled their way up the stairs and slowly into Richie's room. She looked up at him as he gently placed her to sit on his bed. Yeah, he'd wait.

He'd wait forever.

He sat next to her, one leg propped on the bed, so he faced her, her profile glistening with tears and lips pursed and jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

"Bev," He breathed, reaching out to brush a curl from her cheek.

Tomorrow, they'd talk about why she'd come to him, hardly dressed, numb and unmoving. Tomorrow, she'd tell him how all her clothes reminded her of him too much; how each piece of clothing held a memory that she couldn't finish telling with choking and Richie hugging her tightly, crying silently with her. Tomorrow, they'd go to her house, throw all her clothes into a pile and burn them. They'd watch the burning fire claim the clothes, her memories, him. And Richie would hold Beverly with flames flickering in his eyes and promise on his lips that she would wear his clothes until she bought new ones.

But for now, she leaned into his touch and Richie scooted forward to let her fall against his chest. She curled around him, thighs slotting together, her arm hooked around his torso and head on top his heart. He grabbed the blankets and wrapped them around the both of them, and by the relieving deep sigh Beverly exhaled, she melted into his embrace.

"I love you so much, Bev. And one day we're going to get out of this town. Me, you, all of us. The world better get ready, because they've got hell coming. We're owed a debt. And it's time for life to pay us back for the shit it's done to us." He spoke distinctly and decisively, staring hard at the ceiling, his hand carding tendering through her hair, the other stroking her back.

She tilted her head up until her chin was propped up on his chest and he looked down at her. "The Losers Club versus the world," She murmured, voice a little scratchy, but strong in the tense air of the room.

Richie looked down at her, stars of determination twinkling into the darkness of his eyes, "And we're gonna win."

And his face split into a smile so warm, so _fantastic_ , that Beverly believed him.

Tomorrow, they would plan their new life.


End file.
